


No More Than It Is

by marchingjaybird



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-18
Updated: 2010-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-06 10:09:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marchingjaybird/pseuds/marchingjaybird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Late night in a hotel room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	No More Than It Is

Once you've seen one porn, you've basically seen them all. Sure, there are endless variations on the common theme: guy on girl, girl on girl, guy on girl on girl, guy on girl on guy. He generally avoids the guy on guy stuff, if only because it's kind of depressing and weird watching two hairless dudes going at it when 90 percent of the time the guy on the bottom doesn't even have a hard-on. Still, it's all your basic insert tab A into slot B stuff. They don't really show the kinky shit on motel room pay-per-view.

Doesn't much matter, though. Porn is just a visual aid for him, something to stare at when he's sitting in the hotel room alone. Lately, that hasn't been happening all that much. Lately, Dad has been paying him a lot of late night visits.

Slick fingers push up inside him and he grunts softly, turning his head away. He never can look Dad straight in the face, and it's probably a blessing in disguise. Bad enough that he enjoys it, that he spreads his legs with little coaxing and hitches his hips up to meet each thrust. If there's a special shame reserved for the guys who relish getting fucked but turn around and lie to themselves that they're totally straight, there's a singular hell for the ones who bend over for their own father.

Hard teeth find his exposed throat and he voices a strangled cry, twisting his hips as fingertips stab roughly at the sweet spot deep inside. It's a strange pleasure, a spiral of white-hot sensation that melds with the burning pressure of having something inside him. Not something he ever thought he'd enjoy, but the world is a crazy place and he's seen enough to know that your expectations have a way of turning on you.

The pressure eases and he lets himself breathe, sucking in great, wooshing lungfuls of air as Dad's hands, rough and broad, grip him behind the knee and push his legs up till he's folded nearly in half. This is the way they do it, him with his fingers twisted in the sheets, contorted into helplessness, and Dad looming over him, just another shadow in the darkness.

He holds his breath and pain blossoms for a moment, then melts away as Dad's hips begin to move. There's no wasting time, no foreplay, no soothing. Dad doesn't even really talk, beyond the occasional whispered _yes_ and, every now and then, a soft _fuck_. He's gotten used to it, prefers it even. It makes this all less sordid somehow knowing that neither of them are trying to make it more than it is.

Dad hooks his legs over his broad shoulders and leans in close. It changes the angle of his thrusts and Dean cries out again, hoarse and low. Sweat drips from Dad's face onto his, rolls down his forehead and cheeks, and he closes his eyes. It smells like fucking and blood and gunpowder. Dad has been out hunting again. Seems like that's usually the precipitating factor in all of this.

Strong fingers scrape across his scalp and Dean wonders if Dad was reaching for something, trying to wrap his hand around hair that isn't there. It's a strangely unwelcome thought and he grits his teeth, slamming his hips up in an effort to take him deeper.

"Dad," he breathes. It's a breach of etiquette so colossal that his father's hips falter in their rhythm, and for a second he's sure he's ruined the whole thing. Then Dad moves again, pushing in harder than before, twisting his hands in the pillow as he hammers in with bruising force. It's an entirely new sensation, pleasure so intense that it reaches hot fingers throughout his body. He's left gasping and twitching, strangled on his own ecstasy, and Dad's breath gusts hot across his cheek.

"Dean…" So perfect, so deep, and for the first time he really comprehends what's happening. This is hell and they're sharing it and it's _right_. "My boy…"

"_Dad_!" He comes and screams as he does, reaching up and clawing deep furrows across his father's shoulders. Stars explode in front of his eyes, detonate across his skin. It feels as though everything inside him is liquid fire and he can hear his voice rising, howling, and he still has enough presence of mind to be ashamed of himself for sounding like the whore in some porn, screaming for Daddy as his body slowly wrings itself dry.

He opens his eyes in time to see his father's face stiffen and contort, and he doesn't look away. Dad's lips form his name but he's more dignified about it, shuddering and releasing his breath in a slow sigh as he pulls out and falls to the side. Neither of them speak.

The air in the motel room is heavy and hot and the sink in the bathroom is leaking, a steady drip, drip, drip that might just drive him insane. He shifts to get out of bed, aching and exhausted, and is stopped by an arm across his waist. Slowly, he settles back against the pillows and listens as the cars rush by and the faucet drips and his father's breathing grows slow and steady, and he knows with depressing certainty that this is all the hell that he deserves and all the heaven he's ever going to get.


End file.
